


twenty amazing facts you didn't know about cacti

by watchtheleaves



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Autistic Albert DaSilva, First Kiss, High School AU, It's Soft, M/M, Modern AU, Race has ADHD, YAY A FIC, albert loves cacti, and medda's children, anyway, because i want it i got it, filmmaker race, i love them, i mean? they Are in tenth grade, it's almost two am, it's my comfort fictional character and i get to project, non binary albert dasilva, oh yeah, other than that it's just soft, race and jack are brothers, race kissed oscar at a party for a dare, race knows big words, so i don't know if this makes any sense, that's the only warning, very extremely, wait let me tag this right, what are these tags oh my god i'm so sorry, yay ! they kiss !
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-11
Updated: 2020-05-11
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:53:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24122410
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchtheleaves/pseuds/watchtheleaves
Summary: re·splen·dence\ ri-ˈsplen-dən(t)s  \(noun) the quality or state of shining brilliantlyrace has a great idea, and who is he if he doesn't drag albert down with it.
Relationships: Albert DaSilva/Racetrack Higgins
Comments: 9
Kudos: 29





	twenty amazing facts you didn't know about cacti

**Author's Note:**

> hi! yay! happy fic!
> 
> it's very soft. and albert loves cacti. and race loves to hear albert talking about cacti. it doesn't get any better than this!

Like when dealing with any great ideas, inspiration struck Race like lighting in the most mundane moment of the day—in the middle of an Uno game with himself.

The cards were, of course, discarded over the wooden floor of his bedroom as he stood up satirically fast and hit his head with the bottom of the top bed in the bunk he shared with a much grumpier, much busier Jack Kelly.

“What the hell, Racer,” awoke his brother from an impromptu nap. Race shrugged. It wasn’t his fault that Jack was sleeping on a Thursday afternoon as the sun barged through their window like there was nothing more important than what awaited outside. “I’m moving out, you rat.”

“You do that,” said Race, hurrying into his shoes and not bothering to tie his laces as he bolted out of the room. Jack groaned and dived back into his pillow.

Because you see, Race and his brother had minds that worked strange ways when put one next to the other. Jack was creative, the most creative of the house in his brightest days, and when inspired he would be loud and he would be fidgety until his work was done and finished. Race knew his brother’s ways, knew and admired, but he worked in a much more complicated nature—he didn’t plant ideas and wait for them to grow, he didn’t go out looking for the world to impress him. It just did. At the most random, sometimes rather unfortunate times.

One day, he was going to put his brain to good use and make something good. One day, his work would show the world a brighter, more colorful, rather unseen side of the ruins that remained on Earth. He wanted people to see the world as he did—amazedly, wonderingly, astoundedly. Race knew he wanted his ideas to change the world, he knew he wanted to change lives. Which was just the right amount of unconventional when considered that he wanted to do such things while standing behind a camera.

He had captured plenty in his life. He had filmed every familiar face of his fellow tenth-grader friends, he had filmed his desperate soul of a brother as he studied last-minute for a crucial exam (and his reaction when he got a passing grade), he had filmed trees and animals and strangers walking down the street.

But _this_. Oh, boy. This was Race’s golden star. This was Race’s great idea. He could feel it.

“Wear a coat,” exclaimed successful fashion designer Medda Larkin as her youngest ran in and out of the kitchen, off to his next adventure. She shook her head with a smile and reminded herself to check in with Jack to find out the whereabouts of the kid—not that she really needed to. There was only one place Race ever headed to alone, and it was the home of the kid he went in all of his treks with.

So, as very much predicted, Race ran coatless the three blocks down the street and stopped to catch his breath in front of the DaSilva residence. There was a big chance he was wearing socks from different pairs, but he shrugged it off as he climbed up the tree he knew best and made his way inside the first bedroom to the left.

And there Albert DaSilva was, youngest of three, finishing either Calculus or Spanish homework. They barely bothered to look up as the skinny blonde intruder opened their window skillfully and jumped inside with much less grace than planned.

It was Calculus. Race kept that detail in the part of his mind that guarded seemingly useless information about Albert and reminded himself to offer his friend some tutoring later. Not now, though. Now was the time to talk about his most brilliant idea.

“Did you kill someone?” Albert asked, not looking up from where they pressed buttons in a battered inherited calculator.

Race shook his head as he plopped himself down in Albert’s bed, feet up the wall and head hanging backward.

“Are you running from the cops?”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Do I have any chance of getting this done?”

“Don't think so.”

The pencil dropped from Albert’s hand and they spun in their desk chair, showing no amusement but not even attempting at refusal or demurral. Seven years of friendship had proved that action worthless.

They crossed their arms over their chest and Race smiled. “Okay. Spill.”

Albert DaSilva’s room was only slightly smaller than the one Race shared with Jack, but the lack of bunkbed and scattered art supplies made it look bigger. There was a red accent wall in the otherwise white room, and a wide window with plants on both sides and plenty enough space for Race to intrude every other afternoon. Albert also kept a spare inflatable mattress in the closet and many, _many_ posters. Race’s personal favorite was a Hunger Games one signed by the one and only Sam Claflin.

Oh, blessed Sam Claflin. 

“I’ve got it,” said Race with sparkling eyes. His hands fidgeted with the hem of his shirt. “I’ve finally got it.”

“Wait, really?” Albert crossed their legs and leaned on them.

Race nodded himself dizzy. “It’s brilliant.”

Albert opened their mouth to say something, paused, stood up, and peeked out their bedroom door before closing it and turning around.

“What is it?” They half-whispered. Race chuckled before twisting himself to sit up straight.

Blinking away the dots of color that the movement brought to his vision, he looked into Albert’s eyes and bit his lip with more excitement than his fifteen-year-old body was designed to contain. And he explained. No, he narrated. He told the story using complicated words and hand gestures and only grew more and more confident as Albert’s smile grew.

He felt like he’d been talking for ages, at some point. He very well could’ve been—Albert would’ve let him. He wasn’t entirely sure his speech (no, _narration_ ) was making any sense.

Race ran out of words and breathed.

“So that’s,” he shrugged, hands antsy. “The main idea, y’know. Just—something different.”

There was silence in front of him. Race tilted his head.

“C’mon. Say it.”

“No, it’s nothing bad,” Albert lifted their hands. They smiled, “It’s just very you.”

The boy frowned. “That sounds bad.”

Albert laughed, moving up from the chair to sit in the bed next to Race. “It’s not, I promise, it’s good! It’s just one of those things that no one else could come up with.”

Race hummed, then smiled.

Through the many years of their elementary-school-originated friendship, Race found himself wondering many times if saying things of that relevance in a regular conversation was, well, regular. Because Albert said things a lot, in a great amount, and Race found himself clinging onto their every word like it had been said with much more seriousness than how Albert probably meant them.

They were just like that. An honest kid. A good friend. That’s why Race kept them around, for the good company they provided.

Nothing more, nothing less.

“I want you to star in it,” he said fast as if letting the words out quickly would give him any chance at conviction. “I know what you’re gonna say—”

“No, no way,” Albert stood up.

“—But I need you in this, really, I don’t think anyone else can do it and you know how I am when I film and I just need the right person in front of the camera and I can write your lines down and it wouldn’t even be too long,” he pleaded. Albert was looking at him with that look on their face that tried at decided and landed somewhere between resigned and unbelieving.

“I don’t act, Racer,” they said.

“You could.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Yes, it is!” Race stood up to level with Albert’s eyeline, but he had to hold his chin slightly higher now that the _bastard_ had decided to grow an inch and a half taller. “Please. This is—It’s the one idea. I’ll never drag you into anything ever again, I promise.”

He knew the eyes did the trick. It was funny to watch Albert melt only slightly without losing their posture. They rolled their eyes.

“Like you’d live a day without dragging me into things.”

Race jumped two feet in the air, fist-pumping and smile cracking his face in two. Albert shook their head, regret already washing over their face. Still, there was something about seeing Race happy. It was easy to watch. Contagious.

Albert wondered if everyone felt the same. It was probably just Race’s effect on people.

There were measured dangers to being Antonio Higgins’ designated partner in crime. For one, there was the constant of not knowing if they were going to make it back before curfew—or at all, for that matter. There were also one or ten times where Albert had to run from fire, dogs, spirits, angry churchmen, or the law.

All in all, starring in a movie shouldn’t have felt as scary as it did. And they probably shouldn’t have been shaking in front of the camera as soon as the red light went on and Race mouthed _action_.

They were a shit actor. Of all things in life they were good at—running, or agreeing to the least convenient offers—they were bad at acting. And Race knew that, for crying out loud, he’d been there during the Drama Club Fiasco.

Maybe Albert had lost a dare, and this was their punishment. They didn’t remember.

“And,” Race whispered. _Action!_

The lines were impossible to remember, that was the problem. Albert had written it, had thought it over, had said it in front of the mirror, and had talked about it for a good fifteen minutes on their way over to Race’s house and basement-turned-filming-set. The lines were just hard to say aloud when there was complete silence and Race was looking at them like that, and as much as those words were their own, they felt unnatural.

“Cacti have spines instead of leaves. Spines can be soft or rigid, straight or curved, arranged in rows, or scattered. They can reach 6 inches in length,” they swallowed the end of the sentence along with a lump in their throat. They shook their head and started over, frustrated to a point. “Cacti have spines instead of— _fuck_. There’s no point, Race.”

Race left the camera running as he walked around the tripod and towards Albert, whose best features—their freckles and hazel eyes, that was—were just shining under the flattering spotlight. Not that Albert was aware of that to any extent, but Race was.

That was his job. As a filmmaker. As a professional artist.

“You’re too tense,” he said, holding their forearms and shaking them around for his own amusement. “You’re not a robot, Albie. You know this stuff—you _love_ cactuses. Just talk to me about that!”

“But the lines—”

“Screw the lines. Just,” Race ran back to his spot behind the camera and nodded. “Just talk. Say what you know, what you like. Geek out like the nerd you are.

Not without flipping Race off first, Albert sighed and wiped their hands on their jeans.

“Well, uh. Actually,” they said, looking more at Race behind the camera than at the lense. “The word ‘cactus’ comes from the Greek name _Kaktos_ , and technically, the plural form for it is _cacti_. Because of Latin roots, or—whatever.” Race nodded along. “And—they have waxy surfaces, which prevents water loss. And their spines protect them from humans and animals, and they help them collect water and trap air and provide shade and—”

Their face lit up when digging further into their mind to find facts, and they knew _so_ much. Their eyes sparkled with excitement and something new between pride and wonder, and their smile was so big Race knew that that was what he was looking for. That was what he wanted the world to see. Hell, he would’ve wallpapered the world with that precise instant of Albert’s expression if humanly possible.

Race smiled as Albert finished talking, rocking slightly from one foot to the other.

The silence made them nervous. It was always disturbing, especially when around Race—peace was not one with the boy. Ever. Which explained the unsettling feeling as Race didn’t show his face for five seconds before yelling _cut!_ like a big director-magnate and running from behind the camera to tackle Albert in a hug.

“You did it,” he exclaimed. “You did it, you did it, you did it!”

Albert hugged him back. “Alright, calm down, put me down,” they said, face red.

“That was so cool! Your face was like,” Race moved his arms inexplicably. “And you said all those crazy things and it was so, so good, and this is—that was so—”

The camera was still running when Albert kissed him. Suddenly, unannouncedly, like not even they were conscious they were doing it until it was done a second later. Just long enough to make Race stop talking—maybe the first real, effective method.

The camera also caught Race’s face when Albert stepped back.

“Stop being a nice person,” huffed Albert. “It’s confusing.”

Race’s mind, running an extra hundred miles a minute, felt like the loading symbol in an old Mac desk computer. He looked at Albert like they’d gone mad—because they had—and ran two fingers over his lips.

“Why’d you do that?”

Albert shrugged. “Why not?”

After a second, Race really didn’t find any reasons to demur. So he leaned in again. And again. And again. And Albert’s lips were even better than Oscar Delancey’s, which was a given since that kiss was a dare and these felt like a gift. And Albert’s face whenever he leaned back was ruined with a smile and with the air of smugness because they couldn’t remember lines, but they sure as hell owned that first kiss. And Race discovered that he loved kissing Albert even more than he loved listening to their plant facts.

Aside from Race’s first-ever five-minute short film (titled _resplendence_ —Race knew big words), footage from that afternoon was used for inspiration in the years to come. And Race looked at those seventeen minutes of Albert’s face going through so many motions for months and months and found himself never getting tired.

And he went on with his mission to change the world. And he adopted a cactus.

So it was a pretty successful afternoon, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> things that i wanted to include in this fic but forgot (which doesn't mean they didn't happen): albert thinking they look silly in the clothes race picked out for them, race being soft(er) and remembering them that it's just the two of them.
> 
> i've come to find out that not hurting albert is way easier than hurting albert. so i'm gonna keep doing that.
> 
> @newsieslive on twitter, @whizzcrwins on tumblr! wash your hands and be. safe. the world is still beautiful and sunny and love still exists. don't let these ugly times eat at you


End file.
